May 24, 2024

My Impossible Mission To Find Tom Cruise

“It’s within two miles of the airport,” he said. “Look for the biggest house. And I mean—” his voice dropped to a whisper, “— The most.”

“It’s a very famous house,” he said. “The anti-slavery movement began there.”

I was aware of this property from my earlier research. It was a large, butter-coloured manor once owned by the prime minister, William Pitt the Younger. I ruled it out of the running as a possible Cruise residence because it was sold in 2018 (£8.5 million) to a used car magnate who, at least according to a 2020 article that read I in Car Dealer magazine, it was quite. comfortably ensconced there. But it was only a few miles away. On foot, the journey could be completed in just over an hour.

How exactly I ended up on the edge of that woman’s privately owned park again, I have no idea. The journey to that point seemed to take me through brand new areas. Suddenly, I noticed that the path had spread into a dense forest. This is just like what happened yesterday, when I trespassed in that woman’s field, I thought, then I looked up and saw her house in the distance.

I panic. I scared a badger – same, baby! — and bolted through the forest as fast as I could in a new, randomly chosen direction. This put me in a huge field that I hadn’t expected before. On every path before, there was a vigorously growing cow parsley standing on slender stems, about a shin high. Here, a direct taxi came grazing my shoulder, and fallen comrades clutching my ankles. Real panic needles picked my nape under sweaty hair. Statistically speaking, I assured myself, it was unlikely that I would be trapped in this field until I died there.

Who – wouldn’t it serve that woman right if I died in this field, so close to her, where I wasn’t allowed? “That would teach her a lesson,” I said into the audio recorder I brought in case I ran into Tom Cruise. I had to “find some way to notify her,” I explained. (On my death.) I hope she would see my picture in — a newspaper! That would be another good thing about dying in the future, I said to the recorder. It would “serve” the editor who recklessly assigned me this article — who irresponsibly approved my travel budget — “right.” It would probably ruin his life, or at least his work life. God, would he be fired? Surely, at the very least, he would be in trouble. You should never have sent her to a small English town. Would our death tell him not to blame himself? I hope not – I’m dead for it! I didn’t want to die, of course — but if it happened, at least I would die doing what I wanted: hurting people and getting into deserved trouble. I had not yet developed a clear mental image of my husband’s second wife when I realized that I had fallen, in the middle of the field, on a dirt path that led into a neighborhood. I ran it down – inside, I was surprised to find the exact direction of the used car dealer’s palatial estate.

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